Evelyn G. of Christminster

I CAN see the towersIn mind quite clearNot many hours'Faring from here;But how up and go,And briskly bearThither, and knowThat you are not there?

Though the birds sing small,And apple and pearOn your trees by the wallAre ripe and rare,Though none excel them,I have no careTo taste them or smell themAnd you not there.

Though the College stonesAre smit with the sun,And the graduates and DonsWho held you as one

Of brightest browStill think as they did,Why haunt with them nowYour candle is hid?

Towards the riverA pealing swells:They cost me a quiver—Those prayerful bells!How go to God,Who can reproveWith so heavy a rodAs your swift remove!

The chorded keysWait all in a row,And the bellows wheezeAs long ago.And the psalter lingers,And organist's chair;But where are your fingersThat once wagged there?

Shall I then seekThat desert placeThis or next week,And those tracks traceThat fill me with carkAnd cloy; nowhereBeing movement or markOf you now there!